


lightning made flesh

by kaeropteran



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, Fire Emblem: Thracia 776
Genre: Angst, Aunt-Niece Relationship, Brother-Sister Relationships, Drama, Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeropteran/pseuds/kaeropteran
Summary: "We must not remain complacent as thunder; it is lightning that wields power."Short drabbles and speculative character studies on the members of House Friege, trying to humanize the "antagonists" of the family and explore their relationships with one another.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Their Respective Grudges (Bloom & Tailtiu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She would bear the grudge, for otherwise she feared she would forget the hand which they had been so unjustly dealt.
> 
> He would bear the grudge, for family's sake, even if that grudge was against his own sister. 
> 
> The resentment between brother and sister.

_"No matter what happens, sister, we are still family. Don't ever forget that."_

Were they still family, if she could not even stomach the thought of seeing them again?

Were they still family, if the news of their arrival forced her to abandon her son for fear of what they might do to him?

Were they still family, if she was gagged and bound and unable to do anything but listen to her daughter's cries as they ripped her from her arms?

* * *

She had run from home to see the world. That was the lie she had prepared to tell her father.

She had run from home to find adventure, before she lost as much hair as he. That was the taunt she had prepared to tell her brother. 

She had run from home because she was confused -- how had smug Lex and innocent Azel joined the side of a traitor? -- because she was lonely without their constant bickering and teasing, because she was afraid that she would soon have to raise Thoron against her only true friends in the world. That was the cold truth she refused to acknowledge, for she had never felt so foolish and so ashamed.

* * *

The skies turned the red of blood and the earth to ash, and the world had come crashing down on them without warning.

They had been so close.

So close to home, to safety, to glory. 

Perhaps they had hoped for too much; perhaps they had soared too close to the sun.

(But perhaps they had never had a chance to begin with, for the hand of fate was fickle and too often cruel.)

Their righteousness had been condemned as rebellion, the truth scraped away as easily as one might an old scab, for what was justice in the face of strength?

But what concern did the dead have for their legacy? It was left to the ones who remained alive, the ones for whom they had laid down their lives, to bear the grudge in their stead.

* * *

"Did you think I would ever forgive you --" 

(Her brother's face was a mask of anger, yet, despite herself, she could not help but notice that his hairline had receded further. If it weren’t for the circumstances, she would have laughed.)

"-- for what you did to Father?"

"Brother, Father was in the wrong -- he committed _murder_ for the sake of--"

"That's rich, Tailtiu!" Bloom scoffed. "As if you and your rebel army didn't bathe in your fair share of bloodshed. Take her away!"

* * *

"Sister," Bloom leaned against the door of her rooms, watching as she cradled her sleeping daughter whom he had ordered to be safely returned to her that morning. "You understand, I have to put up pretenses like this, and I cannot go against my wife who reports directly to the capital. House Friege cannot be suspected of further rebellion towards the Empire."

She didn't reply, even after he paused.

"I have children of my own, sister, and I know how it must pain you to have lost your son in Silesse, but it was never my intention to cause you any grief. You are still my sister, even if you were a part of the rebels who killed our father."

She didn't even turn to look at him. But he stubbornly persisted, trying to make her understand, trying to justify himself.

"Don't you remember? Father was always lecturing us on the strength of a united family, of leaving a legacy that will survive long after your bones become dust. Do you understand? It was all for our family, for the glory of House Friege. And even if he acted immorally, he is still our father."

She still refused to speak to him, though he knew by the way her shoulders tensed that she had indeed heard him. He sighed resignedly. That was probably as much reaction as he could hope for. "If there is anything you need, tell the guards outside. I will try to arrange it."

And right before her chamber doors closed behind him, he heard her whisper, "Coward."

* * *

She would hold fast onto her anger, for the son she abandoned and the husband who would never return, for her comrades who had lost their lives and the carefree days of childhood now only a distant memory — as if doing so might free her and her innocent daughter from the clutches of the cruel fate which had taken all that she held dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This house is, hands down, my favorite family in FE4.
> 
> And while some of them like Reptor, Bloom, and Hilda might be beyond redemption, I wanted to explore their morals and thought processes, as well as their relationships with their children/siblings. 
> 
> Reptor, Bloom, Hilda, Ishtar, Ishtore, Tailtiu, Tine, Arthur. This family just has the whole spectrum of good and evil.


	2. Goddess of Lightning (Ishtar & Tailtiu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was not her mother who comforted her when she cried.
> 
> The relationship between aunt and niece.

It was not her mother who sang her to sleep, as her heartbeat slowed to the tempo of a comforting palm drumming a gentle beat on her back. 

It was not her mother who held her when she cried, after the stubborn dams she built in her eyes burst under the pressures of her father's expectations and the pain of the burns that her powers had seared across her arms. 

It was not her mother who shared her secrets, who heard her fears and acknowledged her insecurities, and, when the brand of Thrud claimed her as Friege's heir, knew that, in truth, the sound of thunder frightened her. 

"What's so wrong with that?" Tailtiu had asked. 

"Father says I have to be strong, that I should be proud, because I was blessed by the gods. And Mother -- Mother says that fear is a weakness."

"Fear is no weakness, Ishtar," her aunt had told her, gently, laying a pale hand on her clenched fists, and Ishtar had seen the scars from lightning burns that mirrored her own. "It is proof that power must never be handled irresponsibly to instill fear, it is the reminder that we must wield the powers we were given for those who feel the same fear."

"What if -- what if this power was not meant to be mine? What if it was Ishtore who was meant to have it? What if the gods are wrong?"

 _Then you must prove that they were right,_ her father would have said. 

_Then you must not listen to them, for the gods are never right,_ her mother would have said.

"Then you must show them that you, too, are a goddess in your own right," her aunt had said.

* * *

It was a strange thing to remember, now of all times, as she raised Mjolnir to strike down her foes -- mere mortals who saw her as an insurmountable existence. And to them, perhaps, she looked as dangerous as the thunderbolts she commanded, as unreachable as the heavens from which they descended. 

"Still your tongue... And feel the wrath of --"

They would never know that beneath her gloves, her arms were marred with a web of scars, the old wounds inflicted by the very magic tomes from which she drew power. They would never know that beneath her facade of strength, there remained a girl who still trembled at the sound of thunder, whose knuckles shone white on the hand with which she held the Mjolnir tome. 

But, now, none of it mattered, for she was...

"-- the goddess of lightning!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Man, I love Ishtar.~~
> 
> Although the relationship between Tine and Ishtar (and Ishtore for that matter) should be like that of Cinderella and her stepsisters (by virtue of Hilda's role in Tailtiu's abuse and eventual death), I love how that gets subverted in FE4, and this leads me to believe that Tailtiu had been a positive influence on her neice/nephew's lives. (Ishtore just doesn't have enough of a character to write, so he's been put on hold). 
> 
> Also, I really like the aesthetic of Ishtar's gloves, and the fact that both she and her aunt wear sleeves that cover their arms and hands made me think of hiding training scars from wielding the power of lightning. Or something like that.


	3. Hooded Eyes and Talons for Hands (Hilda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking into the mirror, she did not recognize the girl who stared back.
> 
> Hilda's past with the Lyoptr cult, and how she became one of its members.

"Rejoice." The dark-robed cultists had hooded eyes and talons for hands. "For you will be a sacrifice to our god."

Even though she cried, even when she begged, even if she prayed, the worshippers of the dark god had offered her no mercy, and they tossed her like a rag into the arena, the floor slick with blood. 

But she learned -- through experience -- that humans had an odd desire to fight tooth and nail -- literally -- for lives even they were not sure they wanted. 

In the aftermath, her wounds throbbed, and when they scabbed, the blood stuck to her shirt so that the gashes reopened when she peeled her clothes from her back. In the silence, she recalled the screams and the looks of horror on the faces of her fellow villagers, and when she covered her ears and shut her eyes, their voices grew louder and their glares became wordless accusations. In the darkness, her nostrils were permeated by the stench of blood, and it took her a moment to realize that the source was the bits of flesh underneath her fingernails.

"If we pray hard enough," she remembered hearing, on the first night they were brought to the place, "then the gods will save us." 

Who was it that had told them thus? When had those words become a hymn, to lull them to sleep when their wounds festered and their empty bellies twisted in agony? 

What had made her so begrudge those words and the salvation they promised?

* * *

It was the stench of ash and burnt flesh to which she woke, before rough hands dragged her to an empty cell. No, not empty; her sister was there, right in front of her, and she had never felt such happiness -- her sister was alive and everything would return to normal again; they would laugh as they played in the fields and make flower crowns from asphodels because as long as they had one another, they would be alright -- and then they were brought to the center of the fighting pits. 

She had never felt dread sink so quickly into the pit of her stomach. 

After that, she coated her hands with the blood of neighbors, friends with whom she had once forged promises, until she could not look at anyone without suspicion. She shivered in the dead of the night, until the frost seeped into the marrow of her bones and numbed all feeling. She cried until her tears ran dry and her blood cold, until at last she could no nothing but let the waves of despair and anger drown her in their freezing depths.

If the gods would not come, she decided, then she would save herself in their place.

* * *

In the end, their prayers went unanswered, and the stench of blood only grew stronger. 

And one day she suddenly found herself alone -- the last child left alive. The dark-robed cultists congratulated her and gave her her first warm meal in months, and she would never forget how they laughed as they dragged her to the funeral pyre. 

So they were finally going to kill her. 

And from the tips of her fingers, the white-hot flames of Salamand licked at the ropes binding her wrists. On the back of her palm, flecked with grime and encrusted with blood, the brand of Fjalar was burned into her skin.

How ironic, that the god of flames should claim her, when all she felt was the cold circulating in her veins, the frost numbing the pain and filling the cracks in her frozen heart. 

They released her, the sole survivor of a decimated town -- had _they_ destroyed it, or was _she_ the one who had done so, her hands stained with the blood of its villagers? -- and they promised her that she would be powerful. 

They wrapped her in a dark cloak and lowered her from the pyre, guiding her gently, almost reverently, from the mildewed dungeons to the brightly lit halls of the castle. They pushed her to her knees before the archbishop, and behind him, in the metal of the greatsword hanging on the wall, she saw a girl she did not recognize dressed in dark robes, staring back at her with hooded eyes and talons for hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just write a backstory on Hilda of all people
> 
> In case anything was ambiguous, Hilda got captured by the Lyoptr cult as a child -- in one of their child hunts -- and was forced to participate in the arena fights before they eventually try to kill her. 
> 
> But right before they do, she manifests her minor Fjalar blood, and because of circumstances and because of the fact that she's done kinda a lot of terrible things she really has no choice but to become one of them.


	4. Bolt of Lightning (Ishtore & Ishtar & Tine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if his cousin was ostracized for her heritage and his sister pressured by her blood, he would be the last one to abandon them; he wanted to be the one to relieve them of the heavy burdens they carried on their tiny shoulders. 
> 
> The relationship between Ishtore and his sister, Ishtar; in parallel, the relationship between Ishtore and his cousin Tine

"There's no need to act strong around me, sister," were words that he did not say, not with his voice, but with his eyes, the knitted brows revealing his concern, and with the silence between them in the aftermath of a battle, as he held her until her shoulders relaxed and her trembling subsided, hoping that his touch might relieve her of nightmares of screaming men and the stench of their charred remains. 

"There's no need to pretend around me, cousin," were words that he did not say, not with his voice, but with his unrestrained laughter as he took her with him to explore the markets of a neighboring town, and with the silence between them when he endured the punishment with her, hoping that his presence might lessen the pain of the lashes and the scalding words his mother dumped on them like boiling water. 

* * *

When he was still fearless and his sister still cried at the sound of thunder, when he was still ignorant and she unmarked by the brand of Thrud, his parents and the servants of the house had prepared him for the mantle of Duke of Friege, forbidding him from pursuing the escapades that a young boy often dreamt of and scolding him for his lack of propriety. 

(The past two generations of Friege dukes had been male, were the whispers among the servants; surely the lord's son, too, would be blessed by their god.)

They had prepared to groom him as the next heir to House Friege, and a future duke was not allowed a childhood. However, by the time he learned to sit still during mealtimes and align the buttons on his shirts and wear the appropriate attire for greeting diplomats and emperors, he discovered that he was not the heir they wanted. 

* * *

When he was still fearless and his cousin still had her mother, when he was still hopelessly ignorant and she unmarked by the abuse of his mother, he would always be able to quiet her in his arms, even though she cried in Ishtar's. 

(The children of the duke are more attached to their traitorous aunt than their mother, were the whispers among the servants; surely this reflects badly on the family for a traitor to be poisoning the thoughts of the heirs of Friege.)

They had prepared to groom him as the next heir to House Friege, and a future duke was not allowed to associate himself with anyone that might cause unwanted rumors at court. However, by the time he learned the reason why his aunt looked thinner and paler each time he visited, her skin marked by a new purpling bruise; by the time he realized that her insistence for Ishtar and him to promise to take care of Tine was in truth a shroud for her goodbyes, it was far too late to stop her. 

* * *

(He was told that his sister was older than him by a matter of minutes.)

The gods saw fit to claim his unwilling sister, who had burst into tears when their father tried to show them the power of Mjolnir, the power he had been intended to inherit; who had clung to him when the thunderstorms raged outside the windows to their rooms; who had once looked up to him with such pride in her eyes that now only held guilt. 

(He had heard from traveling merchants of a tale from distant lands, that it was the second twin who was actually older, having pushed the younger from the womb.)

Now he could no longer be her shelter when the heavens rumbled, he could no longer step in for her when their father raised his voice and their mother slapped a palm across her cheek, he could no longer be her confidant, as she straightened her shoulders against a burden he could no longer even begin to fathom. 

But even so, he wanted to be the bolt of lightning that connected heaven and earth. He wanted to be her tether to the world, before power corrupted her as terribly as it had her fiancé. He wanted to be the one who could remind her that the goddess of lightning was still only human.

* * *

(He was told that his infant cousin and gentle aunt had besmirched the honor of their house.)

It was misfortune on top of misfortune for his cousin, who had once laughed so brightly in his arms, who had clung to him when they told her that her mother would never come back, who had looked up at him for comfort and reassurance and the promise that all would be well. 

(But time passed, and it seemed like a suspicious death and his father's anger in the aftermath were all the servants needed to forget yesterday's shame. Still, the price his poor aunt had paid was too high, and the ensuing debt had fallen onto the shoulders of her orphaned daughter.)

Now, it was up to him to comfort her when, after crying herself to sleep, she woke from happier dreams to the roar of thunder, only to find that her mother had not returned; it was up to him to shield her when his father glared and his mother raised a threatening hand; it was up to him to listen to her worries, when her shoulders slumped from the weight of her aunt and uncle's disapproval, and her facade of submission gave way to angry tears and a vow to become stronger. 

And so, he resolved to be the bolt of lightning that illuminated a moonless night, even if for just a fleeting moment. He resolved to hold her hand so that she did not have to wander in the darkness alone. He resolved to be the one who could remind her that she belonged, that she, too, was a member of House Friege. 

* * *

He had an older sister and something like a younger sister, and though the former had a stubborn streak and Thrud's brand and the latter fierce eyes and an iron will, he was still their brother, for as long as he lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ishtore is the ideal brother. 
> 
> This chapter is my headcanon on Ishtore's relationship with his sister Ishtar and his cousin Tine (though I originally intended to try to write a fic about his conflict about not having inherited Major Thrud blood, I guess I'll save that for another time). 
> 
> Ishtore really gets sidelined in gen2 after we "accidentally" kill him (and his lover) despite him being an actually good character (which we only really find out about later, grr). 
> 
> Anyway, I imagined Ishtore as being the rebellious son towards his parents, especially after his sister gets the major blood, and while Ishtar's responsibilities might have kept her from protecting Tine as much as she might have wanted, Ishtore became quite protective of Tine, especially since he couldn't do much to help Ishtar through her struggle as heir. 
> 
> Since this is in the perspective of Ishtore, I made him less aware of the truth behind Julius' reign of terror as Lyoptous -- Ishtore assumed that it was power that corrupted him -- and he doesn't know as much as his aunt does (in ch. 2) in terms of how much Ishtar was actually conflicted about her position as heir (though he tries, kinda).
> 
> (Also, I still have no idea what Tine's name is... apparently it's supposed to be the shortened form of Christine, but the Japanese pronunciation turned it more like "Teeny" and I just can't with that romanization...)


	5. Hairtie (Ishtar & Tailtiu; minor Reinhardt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hairtie that tied together aunt and niece.

"It suits you, Ishtar." Her aunt brushed the bangs from her eyes, and Ishtar looked up to face the mirror. Indeed, it was a flattering look, her long hair pulled back by a red hairtie into a high tail that comfortably and confidently fell back behind her shoulders. 

"But Aunt Tailtiu, this is your precious hairband. I can't possibly..."

"Think of it as a good luck charm for your first journey to the capitol." With her hair down, Tailtiu looked older, the lines on her face deeper, but before Ishtar could read the emotion in her aunt's eyes, Tailtiu stood, placing her hands on Ishtar's shoulders. "Think of it as a source of strength, even when I am not beside you. And..."

"What's wrong, Aunty?"

"...Take care of Tine for me, Ishtar." Her voice was shaking. "Promise me."

Ishtar frowned. It was not unusual for Aunt Tailtiu to be solemn and sorrowful, but she never once sounded as desperate as she did now. 

So when Ishtar spoke, she hoped that her voice resonated confidence as befitting a heiress of Friege, she hoped that she sounded as reassuring as her aunt's hairtie that held her hair. 

"Of course, Aunt Taitiu. I promise."

* * *

"The hairstyle suits you, my lady."

She turned in surprise toward the voice. It was a voice she recognized, but he had never once called her that, never once tried to put up pretenses of formality. She soon spotted his figure, standing tall and professional beside his steed. 

"Reinhardt," She approached him as quickly as her formal dress allowed, sighing as he lowered his head in respect. Ever since the brand of Thrud had appeared on her forearm, even the people she thought she was closest to had become strangers overnight. Her father became stern, her mother guarded, even Ishtore had turned aloof, and now Reinhardt, too, was becoming foreign to her.

Only her aunt treated her the same as she always had, her kind aunt and her little cousin who was not old enough to know what it meant to be branded with the major blood of Thrud. 

"Raise your head, Reinhardt. We're friends. You don't have to act like that around me."

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and smiled awkwardly, and when he spoke her name -- a baritone "Ishtar" instead of a stuffy and forced "my lady" -- suddenly he was familiar again. 

"You look different too," she grinned back, eyeing him from head to toe, and gave an approving nod. "Older, somehow. It's a look befitting a warlock of Friege."

Reinhardt's hair was uncharacteristically slicked back, though a few rogue strands still fell across his forehead. He was in formal clothing as well, dressed in a black overcoat and cloak with red accents.

He carefully helped her onto her mare before mounting his own stallion, and the trip to Belhalla did not seem so long with him at her side.

* * *

When she returned, she would tell her aunt all she had seen at the capital, the graceful Queen Dierdre, the regal King Arvis, the gentle Prince Julius and Princess Julia. 

When she returned, she would show her aunt the jewels Prince Julius had shyly given her and laugh as she recalled the stiffness of Reinhardt's movements when he asked her for a dance. 

When she returned, however, she discovered that her aunt was no longer with them. 

_She threw herself from the castle's highest tower,_ her maids whispered, when they thought Ishtar was out of earshot. 

_She could no longer stand the shame of being alive._

_She could no longer endure the abuse of her sister-in-law._

_She could no longer let her existence cast doubt on the integrity of Friege's heirs, Lady Ishtar and Lord Ishtore._

Ishtar did not want to believe in the rumors. Her aunt was stronger than that. She had to be. 

Which of the reasons they hypothesized was truly the cause for her aunt to choose death? Perhaps it was none of them. Perhaps it was all of them.

But was there even any meaning to discover why she died? No matter the reason, it would not change the fact that it was tragic, that it was done, that it was final. 

In the face of that, what use were the meaningless stones Prince Julius had given her, what joy could she derive from her personal happiness that her aunt would never be able to know? 

The night of her return from the capital, after she hugged the crying Tine and was comforted by red-eyed Ishtore, she sat alone in her rooms, and after she lowered her hair from its high tail, her head ached from the tightness with which the band had bound her hair. 

In the candlelight, the red of the hairtie in her hands looked like blood. 

It was the last thing she had to remember her aunt by. Her connection to warmth and comfort and strength in this lonely castle.

She clenched a fist around the last thing that tied her to her aunt, and she swore to become strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ishtar and Tailtiu's hairstyles really look the same, or at least similar enough ~~to the point where Ishtar looks more like Tailtiu's daughter than Tine.~~
> 
> Anyhow, Ishtar is such a complex and fun character to write... and Reinhardt too (I want to explore his character more... maybe in the future); they have such amazing character dynamics.
> 
> (And I really wanted to make a pun on hair _tie_ )


End file.
